There was something very serious in the way she said it—something totally beyond the slightest echo of banter—that affected him. She was looking back fearlessly into his face, and he saw the hurt in her eyes—and he saw in her eyes that she was anxious. A certain faint and subtle element of surprise and wonderment had passed across them, like a cloud shadow over a sunlit field of waving grain. It thrilled him to the very depth of his nature. For the first time in his life he was being driven by an influence, by a storm, or what you will, which contained not one element of self.
"For the love of God, what have you done?" he whispered, almost accusingly in his earnestness.
"Done?" she asked, looking away from him. "You are saying queer things tonight!"
"I am experiencing queer things tonight," his voice trembled. "May I come tomorrow and apologize properly?"
"Apologies are futile; besides, I am going to church with Bip."
"Then the next Sunday!" he entreated. "I know you've a lot to forgive—but I'm so terribly sorry! It hasn't murdered our friendship, has it, Jane?"
"I—I don't know. I'm tired tonight, and maybe can't see things as I should."
"I'm coming tomorrow, anyway, and explain," he whispered.
"No. And please promise you will never refer to this evening again!"
"Very well. And there's another promise I'll make you, too—"